With Naught But Jest
by ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: Sometimes the written word is the best therapy there is. Rose transforms her experience into the language of stories in an effort to understand, bringing with it more than a little of the life she's led.
1. In Which There Are Words

**Chapter 1**

**In Which There Are Words**

_ Every stroke of pen on paper is a mark that, once it's left the pen, can never be recalled. You may crush it in your hands if you please, toss it out and burn it, but it cannot be retracted. Inkstains may wash from skin but they cannot be erased from time._

_ Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself, for we no longer base our works on that of the physical realm but in that of the ethereal. Words are fluid there, easy to rework and redo with very little evidence that they've ever really existed._

_ It makes us forget their gravity._

_ I, however, will not. I write to you a learned man, a man who has come very far and yet not so. Indeed, my journey begins and ends here, at my study, with my fingers on the keys of an old and overused keyboard. It alone is my friend._

_ And, with your consent, I hope to draw you in with me, into a world of words and wizardry-though not, I must confess, in the traditional sense. Perhaps together we can create rationality where once there was none, order where previously only chaos existed. Together, we can retrace the steps I once took on the road to Wonderland._

Rose rubs her thumb over a chink her desk absently, her mind a finely tuned machine of metaphorical cogs and gears, all spinning in perfect unison. In these few moments of peace she can put her feelings on paper-or rather, the fascimilie of paper that is her computer screen. The words invite her from her distraction, welcoming her back to the world of her mind. And oh, does she want to accept. It's the mythological Call of the Siren come back to haunt her in a more modern form, drawing her in with the beckoning blue flicker, the promise of release.

It's been a full week since she's allowed herself time for this, though she's often drawn to wishful glances when off doing other things. It is the secret anchor in the stormy sea of what has become her life; it is work free of work, stress free of stress. This is her therapy.

There is no more hesitation. Her hands are drawn to the keys once more and, as if in dream, her fingers dance across the letters in a fevered frenzy.

_You may ask me why I'm here. To tell you the truth, that is a query that even I, in all my recently acquired knowledge, cannot begin to recount to you. Every time I open my mouth to speak-or, in turn, lower my hands to the faded keys-I find myself at an impasse. The events which have befallen me are so bewildering, so utterly strange, that I can scarcely come to terms with them myself._

_ I am speaking, of course, of my encounter with the stately man they call _Charon. _This is not his real name, of course, though I do suspect he goes by many. It is in this way that he eludes detection from even his most influencial of enemies, of which there are quite a great deal. He came to me one day in his most regal form, complete with hat and coat and cane. It would soon come to light that these were no ordinary articles, though at the time they seemed as such. _

_ He came to me at a time in my life in which, I must admit, there was much darkness. I had recently succumbed to the succubus of the drink, in which I could nestle in the addictive bosom of dependency, freed from both my woes and my suffering. Suffering! I thought I knew suffering then._

_ I did not._

_ But at the time, I thought I knew pain, the stain of crimson splashed across an otherwise unmarked canvas, and we must work under the impression that it was real. Why else would I be at my wits end, night after night, ruled by the harrowed dreams of angered employees and unsatiable debt-collectors? It was the life of a normal man, I think, but I was no ordinary man, nor have I become one in the period since. If anything, I have evolved past even the notions of what is "normal", past even what I once knew by name and called my own: humanity. Regardless, it ruined me._

_ How thoroughly I digress. We must start at the beginning, because that is where all tales first sew the seeds of story. Let us begin._

_ My name is Cetus._


	2. In Which Death Came For Me

**Chapter 2**

**In Which Death Came For Me**

_ Why are we afraid of the dark?_

_ Careful how you answer. This is a trick question. You see, the fear of the dark is really a fear of something far worse than the mere absence of illumination; it is the fear of the _unknown_. We have been conditioned to rely so heavily on our eyes that when they fail us, we are lost. We think that this justifies the fear. After all, if you cannot see, how are you to know if a predator stalks you unbeknownst to your weaker senses?_

_ Prepare yourself, for I must now reveal to you that which plunged me from my so-called fit of dim despair into an ocean of inky black._

_ Your eyes lie._

_ Death does not come to you in the outdated form of reaper's gown. He does not carry a scythe, nor appear skeletal at first glance._

_ Death is a man that looks just like you and me. He blends into the crowd with nary a second thought, slinking through the alleys as if the shadow of a cat. He could be you; he could be me. What I do know for certain, however, is that as intently as he hides, he is not invisible._

_ Death came for me that day, garbed in green from head to toe. His suit was impeccably tailored, reeking of lavender and expense. His hat was at a jaunty angle, a jovial note that so heartily contradicted his face it would be utterly amusing if it weren't so nauseating._

_ Yes, he came for me, and I refused._

The mechanical drone pricks Rose's ears and she is jarred from her concentration, left with only irritation and disgust. The quick glance at the clock tells her it is exactly 3 a.m., though she already knows. The nightly ritual has commenced and her mother has already been throat deep in sherry and cocktails, no doubt. The hum of the vacuum is unbearable as such and Rose can picture the woman now, sashaying round the living room, a completely non-functional dust-sucker tucked in her palm and carted around like a prize position. Perhaps she's humming.

Rose slams the laptop lid down, then carefully gives it a caress. She doesn't mean to take her anger out on her mechanical friend; she's long since abandoned the use of pens in favour of the keyboard. No, she mustn't burn the bridge of sanity; there is much she hasn't told it yet.

She tries to recollect her thoughts, to remember where in his monologue Cetus has come to. It's difficult, though, because he is in a state of constant monologue—as a narrator, he must be, she thinks. The world is filtered through the eyes of this drunken monstrosity which she's created, flavoured in turn by her mother's inebriated escapades around the house.

No. She must remain impartial. The soft green glow of the laptop's battery marker beckons her, off and on, off and on. It has been yet another three days since she touched it for anything other than schoolwork, though sometimes she wonders what she's even aiming for. Her mother certainly doesn't care; why should she?

She longs to return to Cetus' world, the world of ordered fantasy, where even unruly subjects such as magic make sense. She wants things to make sense.

_ His knock was plain and simple: steel upon mahogany. Not a note was out of place as I rose from my dining room chair, the day's paper still in hand. There had been an explosion nearby, one that levelled the entire factory. I had been out of town when it happened, of course, though the reasons behind it still remained dubious at best. Everything from meteors to space invaders had been proposed, though little of it gave any weight or reason._

_ I should have known._

_ When I opened the door, Death greeted me kindly, his top hat pulled from its funny resting place, just a tad too small for the head below it. He introduced himself as Charon and wondered if he might come in._

_ I asked him why._

_ Softly did he speak his response, with careful explanation as to the events that led him here. His car had broken down; did I have a phone?_

_ I did, indeed, have a phone, and so I let him in. This, dear reader, was my first mistake. I did not ask for credentials, nor did I even think to verify his claims with a quick look outside. Perhaps if I had, I would have realized he had no car to break._

_ I asked him in for tea and most graciously he accepted, hanging his cane against the rack and slipping his leather loafers from his feet. Would he perhaps like it Irish? He did not understand my meaning and so I ran through a list of nationalities, as though that would clear things up. Would he like it Welsh? Belgian? Russian?_

_ He said, I'd like it English, and so I gave him none but tea and sugar cubes and kept the rum all to myself._

_ I was beginning to like my new houseguest._

Rose shoves a pair of tattered headphone unceremoniously on her head, turning the music on her laptop on full in a futile attempt to blast the ceaseless buzz (or at least go deaf in doing so). The first song that plays is a remix by her brother, filled to the brim with calculated inane remarks and painfully misplaced ironies. The bass is low and loud, however, and if she tunes out his silly lyrics she finds she is at last at peace.

It is at this exact point that Rose's mother decides to accompany her pseudo-housework with a rousing opera aria.

Rose groans, unheard to all but the inanimate mode of self-preservation before her.

_You mustn't think too low of me. I was human once, you see, and I was at the end of an all-too-short rope. I would do unspeakable things for cash and so, when the opportunity presented itself, I pounced. Charon was a wealthy man, from the top of his stylishly-coifed head to the green of his dollars. He was affluent in every way and I was drawn to him like a fly to an uncapped bulb. He was dangerous, yes, but mesmerizing. I was trapped._

_ He called to me as I made my tea and I confessed I knew not where my phone had fled. He offered his hand in helping me search, but I was on a mission that required his continued favour and so I passed his tea and took upon the task myself. He watched quite awkwardly, I think, as I prostrated myself against the floor, seeking nooks and crannies before unfound._

_ If I had friends, it may not have turned out this way._

_ Perhaps I would have been found._


	3. In Which The Eldritch Comfort Me

**Chapter 3**

**In Which The Eldritch Comfort Me**

_ Do you know despair?_

_ Once I thought I did, long before the cavalry came and I found I was on the other side. The shallow image of my moroseness did mollify me in some sick and twisted way and, like a fool, I took comfort in it. There is a point when even well-meaning sympathy turns down pity's path and you reach a corner so low it is hidden by even the most well-tuned radars of the world._

_ This, I know._

_ But, as it turns out, there is another level still. You see, if you pull back the well-disguised floorboards of the depths, you find a staircase there._

_ I would suggest you not descend._

"I am perfectly alright, Strider." Rose stares up at the ceiling, counting patterns in the dappled paint as her brother makes his monologue across the phone line.

"That's what you always say."

"I say it because it is the truth." Her eyes are drawn to the unassuming laptop at the desk and she feels its pull. Her fingers itch to find the keys and so she buries them deep between the squashy gap where pillow meets bed.

"Yeah, well, you're a Strider. Striders lie."

"I am a Lalonde, thank you very much. Heaven forbid I start wearing gaudy shades and taking up—_insert horrified gasp here—_DJing."

"You're as much a Strider as I am."

"The nausea that has just coursed over every fibre of my being would like to disagree."

"Ha ha." The voice on the other end is tinny and mechanical—a bad connection, perhaps—and it nearly gives pitch to the monotone drawl. "Look, just… We're family now. If you've got a problem, tell me."

"You will be the first on my list should that happen. I will ensure my first contact comes at three a.m. on a Monday."

"You're fucking hilarious. I'm just trying to be a good big bro. You can lie through your goddamn teeth all you want but Strider knows Strider and I know you need it."

Rose sighs and lifts the phone wearily to her lips, clicking the speakerphone off. "Good night, Strider. Pleasant dreams."

"This isn't over."

"If you call me _Strider_ one more time, it may be. Good night."

"…Yeah, alright. Night."

_If, however, you do not heed my warnings and do dare dive into the abyss, I pity you. I pity you as you should pity me and perhaps more so. Then again, if I was in your place, I may still have done the same. The old epitaph states that curiosity killed the cat, but even in its death did the cat not taste its otherworldly reward? After all, knowledge is power and the knowledge of the heretofore unknown is the most enticing of them all._

_ Yet, it was not death I gained, nor its secrets when I walked low the steps of the freshly hewn passage. I should say, I think death would have been sweeter in both design and execution; no, what I faced was something worse even than nothingness. I opened the cellar and peered into insanity, and it did welcome me like an old friend might. The writhing limbs of madness did reach up and take me in their suctioned grasp and we feasted on tea and scones in his foul lair._

_ I asked, Do I detect an aromatic pinch of peppermint?_

_ No, said the Thing, it is the tang of pathos come back to bite you in the arse._

_ Oh, I said. May I have seconds?_

Rose lowers her knitting to her lap, suddenly stricken with the absurdity of the notion. Everything in her room already has a cozy, out of necessity or not, and her friends hardly need yet another kettle warmer. John once suggested she sell them, but she doesn't know why anyone would want something so disgustingly _needless_. If she doesn't even want it, why should anyone else?

She tosses the needles to the small pile of unused yarn on the floor and rolls over, pressing her face against the cool pillow and breathing in. It was starting to get unseasonably cold and she knew her mother had been battling her over the thermostat again. Really, there were only so many sweaters she could wear.

Ah. Maybe she's found her next venture in the form of a life-savingly practical sweater.

How plain.

_ Despite my incessant rambles, I beg you not be confused. The tentacles of terror did not appear before me in guise of monsters under the bed, nor was my despair the darkest corner of the universe—though, I admit, it did seem as such at the time._

_ No, it came to me in the form of an emerald man, with dark hair slicked back and deep-set eyes knocking on my door. He hung his cane and had some tea and ceased to ask for more._

_ Eventually I did find my phone, in my back pocket as it were. I was very embarrassed by the state of things but I think he hardly seemed to notice. He took it from my hand with the very wryest smile and a little nod._

_ Thank you, said Death. You are too kind._

_ No, said I, still in want of monetary compensation but unable to ask for some, I would have done it for anyone._

_ I would not._

_ Death made his call and came to me, a frown upon his face. He said the mechanic was having trouble something terrible, it would seem, and might he stay the night?_

_ I was excited at the prospect and I failed to see the glimmer that hid behind those lidded eyes. My animal instinct did bark at me, they warned me of something I did not know but came to recognize as horror of the most absolute. That speck of animosity aroused no suspicion from me, and I let him stay the night._

_ Oh. How I wish we could turn back the clock. Maybe then I would realize what a fool I'd been and in doing so, repent._


	4. In Which My Soul Did Tremble

**Chapter 4**

**In Which My Soul Did Tremble**

_ Isolation called to me, in my most dark and desolate days._

_ It may have been because of this that my mind did so wholeheartedly reject the notion of my strange guest's presence longer than an hour's length. That is what I thought at the time, at least, as I ignored the prickle at my neck and the raised goose flesh on my arms._

_ Outside a murder croaked throatily, and this, too, I ignored; I was an ignorant man, then. Not now. For now I know the signs of nigh and am privy to information sought by all those who wish to escape a fitful end (yes, dear reader, I speak of you). Listen heartily to these markers as my own eyes did refuse; they will serve you well in your prolonged fate._

_ In the end, however, the monetary gain in my midst did win out against my lonesome wistfulness and so I let him stay. He thanked me kindly and tipped his hat, for once his thin pale lips curling into a smile which, once seen, I hoped would never appear again. His teeth were each a glistening pike, the likes of which I assume only the souls of mortal men could sate. He smiled at me and retreated to the stairs and I, hesitant to follow, watched him go._

_ Already, my regret had begun to grow._

[turntechGodhead has begun pestering tentacleTherapist]

TG: shes not sleeping again

TT: I know.

TG: its getting really bad lalonde im at the end of the rope here

TG: there is no slack left im clawing at its wispy ends

TG: if ropes had nether regions id be dangling by the short hairs fist deep in curly braids

TT: Stop.

TT: Stop right there.

TG: sorry

TT: Is she with you now?

TG: yeah shes here shes in the other room watching that shitty squiddle cartoon for like the bajillionth time number included not only for ironic purposes but because i had to fucking invent a value high enough

TT: Of course.

TT: And you have not roused her suspicion through your absence?

TG: nah shes

TG: shes pretty out of it

TG: i dont think she even noticed me leaving

TT: Well, do try to coax her back to bed.

TT: Perhaps a cup of warm milk and a soft blanket?

TT: And you, of course.

TT: Strew about the rose petals and offer yourself to her.

TG: what

TT: Oh, Strider. I am sure you are not limited in your physical prowess, are you?

TG: what

TG: no

TG: stop

TG: stop stop stop stop stop

TG: i am not talking to you about this jesus fuck you are creepy

TG: why are you even joking right now this is not a time for joking ive heard that theme song so many times i fucking dream about it now its the soundtrack of fucking HORROR

TT: As much as I jest, my only suggestion is that you be there for her.

TT: With her.

TT: For reasons unbeknownst to me, you do seem to have some level of calming effect on her.

TT: I suggest you exploit it.

TG: yeah i know

TG: i just

TG: dont want to see it anymore

TG: id rather the zombies stick to video games and shitty b movies if you get my drift

TG: dont need them chilling in my living room coked out on childrens cartoons

TT: I know.

TG: i want her to feel better

TT: So do I. Persevere, Strider.

TG: persevere persevere i fucking know persevere im not about to give up on her

TG: i just wish i could get a little goddamn knowledge here like what the fuck am i supposed to even do

TG: what do i say

TG: what do i

TG: jesus

TT: Calm down, Strider. It wouldn't do to have you panic, too.

TG: i know i know i know i KNOW

TT: Careful. Your mask is slipping.

[turntechGodhead has ceased pestering tentacleTherapist]

_ I offered Death my bed that night and he looked at me as though amused at some unknown joke._

_ All beds belong to me, he said, a tone of horrid humour pervading his every breath. I thought he meant his influence; perhaps he owned a mattress factory and was merely commenting on its success. A joke, a joke, a joke on me, and I did not get it._

_ Oh, but I would._

_ Sir Charon lay down upon the bed without much ritual or fuss. He merely placed his hat upon the table and folded his hands upon his chest as if in burial. It was unnerving to watch this strangely skeletal man arrange himself, fit for sarcophagus and funeral the moment his breathing quelled._

_ I bid him good-night and fled to the stairs, the hell's shadow nipping at my heels. That night I slept on the parlor sofa and oh, it may have saved my life._

_ The moment the clock struck witching hour, the ghosts came._

_ They were not friendly._


	5. In Which I Was Drawn In

**Chapter 5**

**In Which I Was Drawn In**

_ Shallow moans pierced through the floorboards, invading my shabby home. Ethereal tendrils did wrap around the table legs and misty fingers ghosted across the honky-tonk keys, each plinking a flattened tune. I drew my legs up to my chest and hoped the howling would pass but alas, to no avail, it plagued me through the night. _

_A thousand eyes shone out in the dark with every gaze on me. Oh, my friend, how I wish I could tell you I stayed fast but no, I did not. I succumbed quite quickly with the aching, fearful dread; my tears were no barrier and so they stayed with me the night._

_I do not have enough furnishings for you, guests, I tried to tell them. You will have to go._

_But true to phantom form they did not heed my words and so they drifted in and out my bed space and I did not sleep a wink._

_When morning came and Death descended all was still once more. I sat up as if woken from horrid dream and he smiled a closed-lip stripe across his face._

_Pleasant dreams?_

Two hours, thirty-two minutes and eleven seconds. Rose has been sitting at her desk for two hours, thirty-two minutes and eleven seconds, reading her textbook and absorbing approximately none of it. She reads a line and promptly forgets the meaning of it, then goes back to read it again. And again. And again.

Soon, all words have lost their meaning and her mind is a soggy mess. How unlike her to be like this. Studiousness is all she has, really, and when even her precious language fails, well…what good can she do?

With great disappointment, she drops the textbook to the desk and rolls her chair away to face the window. Outside, a storm rages, with wind and rain pounding against the windowpane and threatening to tear away the shutters. She watches a bolt of lightning split the sky in twain and her eyes are drawn to her laptop, off and alone in the corner. Quietly, she stands and pads her way to it before sitting cross-legged on the floor and pulling it upon her lap.

The cold blue glow of the screen welcomes her, and she smiles.

_ Sir Charon took his seat at the dining table without, I noted, invitation. He pulls towards him a kettle of tea I had sworn sat unused in the cupboard since the previous evening's labour. Charon draws two cups and offers one to me. I take it, perplexed, and sit across from him; together, we take up the only two proper chairs in the flat._

_ And so it was I drank my own tea as offered up by death. He and I spoke in pleasantries and not much else of merit was said. The weather was dark and of sports, there were many; soon we were out of conversation._

_ He asked me if I would like to play a game. Oblivious, I asked why. For fun, said he, that's all it was and ever would come to be._

_ Just for fun._

[ectoBiologist has begun pestering tentacleTherapist]

EB: hey rose!

TT: Hello.

EB: how's it hanging?

TT: With great difficulty, I imagine.

EB: oh…i'm sorry to hear that! are you okay?

TT: Oh, yes. I am perfectly fine.

TT: The storm makes hanging on to anything rather arduous, however.

TT: If my mother were one to hang the laundry, we would have had to retrieve it with great haste upon the rain's arrival.

TT: Thankfully she is not.

EB: is this another one of those passive aggressive battles?

TT: Perhaps.

EB: maybe you should hang the laundry right now then!

EB: that'd show her.

EB: maybe?

EB: if that's how it works, that is.

TT: Yes, it would be…something, I grant you that.

TT: I don't fancy venturing outside for such a flimsy reason, however.

TT: Though I am sure she would do so in a vodka-soaked heartbeat, were she to think of it.

TT: I think I will keep to the house instead.

EB: i don't blame you! it sounds like a pretty bad one. geeeeeeeez. keep inside, alright?

TT: Of course.

EB: that's my rosie!

TT: Don't call me—

[ectoBiologist has ceased pestering tentacleTherapist]

TT: Damn.

_ What sort of game? I inquired._

_ Oh, said he, whatever game you wish. I am open to all forms of contest, you see._

_ In later years upon recollection, I do believe he misspoke. He was not open to all forms of contest, but of _conquest_—particularly of the mortal flavour, I would think. You could see it in the way his eyes drew a person in, not to his mind but to the very heart of the madness that did live inside him. They glittered out beneath his darkened brow like jewels or, perhaps as a more appropriate simile, emerald-shelled beetles. They did seem to crawl, at least, under my own faltering gaze._

_ He never seemed to blink._

_ I put my tea upon the table, hateful curiosity piqued. It just so happens I am just the sort of man to enjoy a bought of competition. You might consider me quite the contender, sir, once the time is right._

_ What shall we play?_


	6. In Which I Was Called To War

**Chapter 6**

**In Which I Am Called To War**

_The game was soon decided and we drew our cards into our clutches. I won three rounds of poker, plain and simple, more than ever I had before. Each hand I called into my grasp was flushed or straight or triplet; I could not believe my luck._

_ And while my streak did not end there, Death folded and looked at me. Was I a gambler?_

_ No, said I, but even Lady Luck smiles on the most unfortunate once in a blue moon._

_ Ah. So Death smiled his thin smile and said to me, what if we were to make it interesting?_

_ Interesting? I surveyed my cards—full house—and thought, why not. Were my luck to hold perhaps so too would my monetary status. After all, Sir Charon sat before me in all his finery; he would be my victim._

_ Oh, oh, how arrogant I was, how vain. The cards were only in my favour because he willed it but to this, I was blind. Do not trust an ignorant man—he thinks he knows everything._

"Try to breathe, Strider." Rose reclines against her pillows, her phone held loosely in her hand.

"Easier said than done," came the tinny wheeze. "I've gone a fucking party of gnomes up in my chest and they're all about wringing out my guts, jumping up and down in my goddamn lungs just to see how fast the giant falls."

"Stop metaphoring and focus."

"Yeah, yeah." There was a length of silence on the other end. "It's hot."

"Hm?"

"It's hot, Lalonde. I'm burning up."

"Open and window and get a glass of water. Are you wearing many layers? I would suggest you discard them," she instructs.

"Not that kind of hot." Rose hears rustling, though, and she thinks he's gone to get some water anyway.

"Well, I know my voice has quite the sensuous tone, but I advise you keep your arousal to a minimum. I already have a suitor."

"Shut the hell up," says Dave. "You aren't helping."

Softer, she says, "My apologies. Are you lying down?"

"No."

"I suggest you do so."

More rustling. "Yeah, alright. What next, doc. Do I tell you about how I want to bang my mum, because we both know how that'd turn out."

Rose frowns. "You know, I can never tell quite how serious these episodes are when you insist on pointless quips."

"…Sorry. It's a Strider thing."

"I am aware." She sighs, though not as loud nor near enough to the cell for him to hear her. "Are you resting?"

"If that's what you want to call it."

"Very good. Try to focus on something else, Strider."

"Like what."

"My voice, perhaps."

"Are you going to tell me a story, Lalonde."

"Oh, yes. It will be filled with princesses and fairies and you might even get a unicorn."

"Fuck yes," says Dave. "It's not a story if it doesn't have motherfucking unicorn farts."

"Of course." Rose cleared her throat. "There once lived Davina, the fairest princess in all the land…"

_ What is your wager? I asked. Not a muscle moved in his face and this I should have taken as a warning sign, but I did not. Blandly he smiled back at me, never twitching, never changing. I say blandly but I mean it from his perspective alone; to me, it was an invitation. I was not the one that needed entertaining._

_ You will see, he said._

_ Considering we play shortly, will you not tell me?_

_ I will not. We play tomorrow._

_ Tomorrow? An interrobang did split the conversation in twain and all he did was nod._

_ Yes, tomorrow. Tomorrow we go to war._

_ To war? Whose?_

_To yours._


	7. In Which The Game Begins

**Chapter 7**

**In Which The Game Begins**

_ To my surprise, the night passed with little incident and it seemed the ghosts had fled. Though my dreams were fit with creeping spooks, they were not, at least, quite so corporeal. Indeed I slept fitfully, as though someone did my every unconscious breath watch. Even in the foggy depths I knew I was not alone._

_ When sunrise came and I rose from the hard cushions of the couch, I found Sir Charon had waited for me, fresh cigarette in his mouth. Airily he took a puff and let it escape his lips in curling plumes of grey. Did I sleep well?_

_ A little unnerved was I, though still I sat across from him and drank my coffee. The cards were still on the table from last night's game and I wondered drunkenly where the time had gone. As if on cue my fingers found a half-filled flask buried deep in breast pocket and subsequently withdrew it. Would the Sir care for a drink?_

_ No, it seemed, he did not._

_ And so I took a swig and dumped the rest into the bitter brew; with a hangover like this, I was in need of a little liquid courage._

_ When do we play? Deal me in._

_ Oh, no, not yet, we can't play yet. You wouldn't go into battle so underdressed, would you? Well, perhaps you would. Death pulled a silken handkerchief from his pocket and daintily he wiped his mouth, though what he had been eating, I knew not. In times since, I try not to think about it._

_ Suit up, good host, for the time of preparation will soon be over._

_ Preparation?_

_ Yes. For war._

Rose sinks wearily to the bench, her hand still blue and aching from the two hours' worth of writing she had just completed. Her arms shake a little and she feels a sickness in her stomach no pill can cure. She knows she should go home but she can't. Not yet.

There is no reason to wait, of course. She has no friends to compare answers with, nor consequent exams.

But still, she sits.

It's time like these that she longs for someone on her side, someone with whom she can share her burdens. It's a lonely road, the one she's chosen—or rather, the one that's been forced upon her. She accepts it, though, as she feels is her duty and, she admits, she is the only one. Everyone needs someone; it just turns out that she _is_ everyone's "someone".

[ectoBiologist has started pestering tentacleTherapist]

EB: how'd it go?

TT: It went.

EB: come on, i bet you did great!

TT: I did something, all right.

EB: don't be so hard on yourself, rose. you studied really hard, you're going to ace it.

TT: Sometimes studying is not enough.

EB: it is if it's you!

EB: and don't argue with me because i'm right.

TT: I am too tired to argue.

TT: But know that you are wrong.

EB: nope! i am so right on this one it hurts.

EB: even your mom's going to have to hang this one on the fridge!

TT: They do not return exams to my knowledge.

TT: And, in the event that they did, she would not hang it on the fridge whether I achieved a hundred or a five.

TT: Then again, were I to achieve a five, perhaps she would hang it out of spite.

TT: Comment withdrawn.

EB: come on, it's not like that.

TT: It is very much like that.

EB: rose, you're going to get a perfect score on this.

EB: you always do.

TT: Repetition breeds familiarity which brings comfort which brings subsequent mistakes.

EB: what?

EB: no, it means you're going to keep doing well!

EB: dammit, rose, i know you.

EB: i know you did well.

EB: and even your mom thinks so, i bet.

EB: er

EB: under all that alcohol.

TT: It doesn't matter what the drunken shrew thinks.

EB: rose….

TT: I am tired, John.

TT: I will talk to you later.

[tentacleTherapist has ceased pestering ectoBiologist]

EB: rose!

EB: fuck

_Upon entering my room, it seemed, the entire place had taken on a grim aura of severity. Though nothing been changed, I thought, the shadows did appear to cast their tendrils a mite longer and did sprout in stranger places._

_ Ignorant to this, I instead went to my drawers to pick out my uniform. If I was to war, I would have to wear a proper suit of arms, and so I pulled my dusty garments from their resting place. Unfashionable and a little drab, they were my best and so I wore them. It was no impeccable suit of emerald, but it would do._

_ Or so I thought._

_ Before I donned my cobalt colours I detoured to the bathing chamber; there I freshened up and, quite clumsily I must add, shaved. When I dressed and beheld my form in the cracked and grimy mirror I looked the same: shabby and unkempt. Ginger hair flopped across my brow and try I might, did stay there. There was no hiding my disarray. To battle I would go, dressed not to the nines but a set of sloppy twos (at best!)._

_ Death greeted me, a slight amused, the devil`s twinkle in his eyes. I sat across from him and, perhaps bolstered from last night`s wins, my spirit rose._

_ Such trickery!_

_ But Sir Charon said not a word as he shuffled through the deck. The tattered cards made a crackling sound and he began to deal._

_ What are the stakes?_

_ That depends, said he. What do you wish for?_

_ Money._

_ Oh. How boring. He flicks a couple cards my way and surveys his own with taste. His face reveals nothing._

_ Power._

_ Such is the state of most mortal men. He called._

_ I surveyed him but gleaned only from him a slightly raised eyebrow, as if to say, You wish to read me? And then a laugh I heard not with ear but in the corners of my mind. You won't succeed._

_ What do you wish for, then? I challenged. What interests you?_

_ At the moment? You._

_ Me?_

_ Yes, you. Oh, don't give me such a distasteful glower, I have no intentions of slavery or prostitution. What sort of man do you take me for?_

_ That cruel gleam, again, as he slipped a card deftly from his hand and placed it in the pile._

_ What I desire is much worse._


	8. In Which Began the Fall

**Chapter 8**

**In Which Began the Fall**

_ It is the human condition that we find ourselves forever in a state of perpetual uselessness, a grey hole of despaired insight of the successes of others. Those around us prosper; we, ourselves, fail. The darkness that eats away at the edges of the mind calling out that we are not worthy of our position, no matter how low we are, because there will always, always be a better._

_ A better what?_

_ Well, that depends. What can you imagine?_

_ That's when the grating hopelessness consumes our senses and we are all but lost to the world of mortal men, the souls above the broken plane we find ourselves trapped in. We are forever behind the looking glass, doomed by our own limitations._

_ As Death sits across from me, I realize that he has never felt this way. He has no empathy for the very human plight of scramble, the need to make a mark on the world if even just once to prove that it is ours—that we, too, have lived. Nay, he has made all the marks he'll ever need and then some; he is not bound by the chains of despair. He is the command of them._

_ Death deals a hand and we take our cards. His grip is as careless as mine is strained, fingers as lax as mine are clammy white. He tosses away a couple and draws an equal number. I try to assess the glint in his eye, but it comes across as neither excited nor even amused. He is unreadable, a blank slate upon which I project whatever state my mind decides. Trying to play smart will not be my strong suit, nor will looking at him be a benefit._

_ He meets my eyes, and in that moment the very chill of defeat does invade the marrow of my bones. He may not have experienced the deep-seated pangs of jealous inadequacy, but he certainly knows how to call it to the surface of my thoughts. The cold emerald of his eyes glitters beneath his regal hat's shade, and I know that the gem is more apt a description than any other; they are unfeeling, unforgiving and inhuman._

_ Casually, Sir Charon places his bets and I place mine, the reckless grandeur I felt last night long given way to overwhelming dread. I will not win. I know this. He knows this._

_ And, as we lay our hands across the flat, the cards know this, as well._

_ Oh my. Death gives a sympathetic nod devoid of any comfort. You seem to have lost._

_ Yes, it seems so. The collar of my armour suddenly is very hot and my hand is forced; I undo the first two buttons, quite unwillingly, as if revealing the vulnerable flesh of my throat is somehow part of his ghastly endeavour. If it is, however, he gives no note and the hesitant swallow I did not know I held finally descends._

_ Shall we play again?_

Rose lifts a hand to her forehead and breathes a silent exhale. She thinks she feels warm, but it's always difficult to judge alone. She slides her hand down until her palm rests against her back and, yes, she thinks her temperature has probably risen a little above the norm.

Now comes the inner debate on what exactly she expects herself to do about the situation. After all, she has never been one to go to her mother for every little thing. Perhaps she should take some medicine, or at least get a glass of water. What was it her distant brother always suggested? A cool, damp cloth? The concept is inviting, but she thinks the reality of the situation would be soggy and uncomfortable. No, she will simply not do anything at all. Her limbs feel weak and there is a dry heat rising somewhere behind her eyes.

_Bed_, says her mind.

She refuses.

[gardenGnostic has begun pestering tentacleTherapist]

GG: hi rose!

TT: Hello.

GG: how are you doing?

TT: I am adequate.

GG: simply adequate? :B

TT: At the moment, yes.

GG: …are you okay?

TT: Yes. I am fine.

TT: Not to be brusque, but is there something you need?

GG: what? no! i just wanted to say hi.

GG: i don't want to scare you again or anything.

GG: you know…like last time.

GG: i'm sorry about that. it really got away from me.

TT: Yes.

GG: thanks, though. i know you were the one to have dave come over!

GG: and you helped pay.

GG: i'll pay you back, i promise!

GG: so, i guess, just thanks for everything you guys did. it was a lot of work.

GG: it helped. a lot.

TT: Good.

GG: rose, are you sure you're okay?

TT: Yes.

GG: normally you're a little more, you know.

GG: wordy.

GG: you'd tell me if something was wrong, right?

TT: Nothing is wrong that you could possibly help.

GG: so something IS wrong?

TT: Yes. No. I am very tired. I may have caught a bug.

GG: oh no! rose, that's terrible!

GG: did you tell your mom?

TT: No.

GG: but what if it's serious?

TT: Then I will decide what to do as it comes.

GG: will you be able to?

TT: We shall see.

GG: rose, that's not comforting! i'm going to call her!

TT: You are going to do no such thing.

TT: In fact, you are going to go to bed.

TT: Right now.

GG: rose, that's

TT: Immediately.

GG: rose

TT: Go to bed.

[tentacleTherapist has ceased pestering gardenGnostic]

GG: rose!

_ Alas, I did give my consent and we played yet another game. I don't know what wicked streak did my mind provide to defy the very contest of my fate, but it was a poor one. Once more we dealt the cards and took them to our hands, to war. What met my eyes was but the very worst display and my heart did sink into the depths I knew not possible._

_ Sir Charon raised his hooded lids once more to cast a gaze of cruel green and I felt a struggling fool in the devil's snare. He was the spider and I the fly and with every burst of idiot strength I only tangled fiercer._

_ Death's pale lips pulled back in_

_ Oh, fuck this. Aargagewao'pegjaa,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,_

_,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,_

_,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,_


End file.
